


Untitled Episode 5.10 coda

by cordelia_gray



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Cuddling and Snuggling, Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-07
Updated: 2009-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-17 23:40:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordelia_gray/pseuds/cordelia_gray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They finish the bottle of whiskey, Dean and Sam and Bobby, watching the flames in the fireplace and trading stories of their fallen warriors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled Episode 5.10 coda

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever piece of fanfic. Any feedback or constructive criticism welcome.
> 
> Written for the [](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_hurtcomfort/profile)[**spn_hurtcomfort**](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_hurtcomfort/) tag meme  
> 

Sam watches the flames lick up the photo, and thinks of loss, of the way the meanings of words burn aways and leave only ashes. “Mom” to Sam means blonde hair and white nightgowns and blood and fire – the same things as “Jess,” really, which is kind of creepy and Oedipal if you think about it, so Sam tries not too. But “mother”, as an abstract noun, had always had a different meaning, something warm and fierce and smart and earthy and brave. Ellen Harvelle. When Dean was... gone... she must have called a hundred times. Sam knows he could have gone to her and she would have taken him in, given him comfort and a shoulder to cry on and chicken soup (or maybe Scotch) and a kick in the ass when he got too far down the spiral. But he never did, for all kinds of reasons, good and bad. Mostly, Sam had been afraid of showing up on Ellen's doorstep with his troubles following him around like a suitcase full of crows, bad omens and death and destiny on his heels, that if he took comfort there, Ellen would end up like everyone else who'd ever loved him, dead and bloody and burned to ashes. But of course it happened anyway, no matter what Sam chooses he always ends up here, watching as one more set of words, of names, loses all meaning and goes up in smoke.

Sam watches Dean watch the photo burn, the cinder edge consuming Jo's lovely face, and feels a stab of guilt – not just the dull background thrum of _oh God oh God all of this is all my fault_ that he's learned to live with, to press down in the back of his mind like a constant headache - but something sharper, fresher. He knows that Jo was Dean's last chance the way Jess was Sam's. His last chance at something - not _safe_ , exactly, Jo Harvelle was never anybody's chance at safe, least of all her own – but _normal,_ maybe, or _happy_. Something better, anyway. Sam thinks that if he were a better person, less selfish, less greedy, less addicted to being the dead center of his brother's world, he would have pushed Dean at Jo the way Dean used to push him at girls years ago – Sarah the art historian, or that minister's daughter – Laura? Laurie? Sam can't remember now. If he had, maybe they wouldn't be here now, watching the flames sear the last meaning from that photo. If Dean'd had Jo, if he'd had the fierce joy that came of having someone lovely and brave and a little crazy at your side, maybe he would have been able to let Sam go. Maybe he would have been able to watch Sam's blood cool in the mud at Cold Oak, watch the flames of the hunter's pyre burn the words “little brother” away, would have changed the word “Sam” from _the thing without which I cannot live_ to _loss_ and _sorrow_ and _regret_. A person can live with all those things, Sam knows.

Sam thinks that if this keeps up, if they keep losing people and words at this rate, that soon their language will devolve into nothing, they'll be left like toddlers, down just _Sam_ and _Dean_ and _yes_ and _no_. 

Sam thinks as long as he can remember _no_ that maybe everything will be all right. 

  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  


They finish the bottle of whiskey, Dean and Sam and Bobby, watching the flames in the fireplace and trading stories of their fallen warriors.

Sometime later they go to bed: Bobby sleeps in the converted living room now, so Sam and Dean each get their own room upstairs.

Dean lies awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the acute silence. Bobby's place is too far from civilisation, no sound of freeway traffic outside the motel room to lull him to sleep. But it's not just that - something else is missing too. Dean doesn't know what it is until he gives up and wanders down the hall to the bathroom. Coming back, he pauses outside the open door to the room Sam's in, and catches the quiet, even sound of Sam breathing, and he knows. He can tell from the sound that Sam isn't really sleeping, and Dean slips quietly inside.

"Dean? What're you doing?" Sam mumbles as Dean climbs in to the bed. It's the master bedroom, ancient creaky king-size bed, which Dean let Sam have 'cause he's a good older brother, he knows how rare it is for Sam to have a bed he can stretch out in.

"Can't sleep without you snoring in the background. It's like a goddamned conditioned response." Dean settles into his side of the bed, kicking a little at Sammy's legs to make room.

"Dude! I don't snore" is Sam's indignant reply. But Dean hears a soft "me too" before they fall asleep, back to back in the big bed, a careful six inches separating them.

Dean wakes later in the night, and is somehow not surprised (though he'll never admit it) to find that they have rolled together in their sleep, and apparently his brother has decided to use him as a man-size teddy bear. Dean thinks he is probably way better than the only man-size teddy bear they ever met (that guy was a total douche) but it's a little undignified. Dean contemplates trying to extricate himself, but he'd have to wake Sam to do it, and he doesn't think Sam sleeps enough these days. These years. So when Dean snuggles a little deeper into Sam's arms and goes back to sleep, it's just because he's an awesome big brother, and he's looking out for Sammy. That's totally it.

When Dean wakes next he's alone in the bed, cold gray light coming through the curtains and the smell of coffee drifting through the house. Dean gets up and pulls on his jeans, pads barefoot down the stairs to the kitchen. Sam is sitting at the table, mug in hand, deep in research mode already. He looks up when Dean comes in, a finger to his lips and a nod indicating a still-sleeping Bobby. Dean nods back and crosses to the counter, finding the full coffee pot and a worn coffee mug proclaiming "Wall Drug, South Dakota" beside it.

Dad had taken them there on the way to Bobby's once when Sam was about 8. They both got mugs, but Sam's got broken (Dean's fault, probably) and they squabbled over the remaining one everytime they stayed at Bobby's, but here it is, all ready for him. Dean fills it with coffee and slides into a chair beside his brother. He looks at Sam, pale and drawn in the early winter light, dark smudges beneath his eyes. He has his laptop open, half a dozen of Bobby's biggest and oldest books spread across the table, notebook and pen in hand.

"So what are we going to do today, Brain?" Dean asks softly. Sam looks up and Dean swears there's the ghost of a smile on his face.

"Same thing we do every day, Dean. Try not to let anyone take over the world."


End file.
